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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287897">Oblivion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita'>Minita</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Happy Ending, Jonsa is implied, No Smut, Not a virus but..., Plague, Post Finale, Quarantine, They’re in quarantine...sort of, after canon, mentions of illness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:47:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious illness has hit Winterfell. Jon arrives, Sansa is sick already. This is kind of dark and there’s a depressing tone to it but I promise a happy ending.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Oblivion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning: those triggered by mentions of illness or quarantine stay away. There’s nothing gross though. Just a bit of despair. Inspired by the novel One hundred years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The winterfellians were resourceful. Jon could see the words painted on walls, doors, even jars and plates as he approached. Sadly, the attempt of the inhabitants to cheat the disease by labeling every known object was futile, for this sickness had also made them forget how to read. He left Castle Black as soon as he got Sansa’s raven but he knew he could not outride time. His hearth ached for the sight he imagined awaited him.</p><p> </p><p>The North Gate was closed shut and he had to surround the walls until he found the door to the Godswood unlocked. Perhaps it was mercy they had forgotten the Godswood existed. Perhaps it was the last mockery of the Gods.</p><p> </p><p>The castle was quiet. Hardly the sickness ridden place he had expected. There were no screams, no feverish talks, no pain he could tell. The disease had set an invisible blanket on top of everything like a layer of fresh snow, beautiful but silent. Its maids, servants, children and old alike fumbled along the corridors, having forgotten where they were going, some of them sitting idle in the courtyard, the memory of how to use a stair ripped from their minds by the disease.</p><p> </p><p>There was still a fire in the kitchen, and for that Jon was grateful. No one will know how to lit one if they had to. As he made it to her chambers he crossed paths with a few people but their eyes were not curious, no one recognized him. He was a stranger, and at the same time he was not. Sansa was sitting on a chair by the fire, asleep. It could not have being later than noon. Perhaps she was sicker already.</p><p> </p><p>Later on Jon would laugh at his own naivety, he had yet to learn that none of the victims cared for meal or bed times anymore, but in the midst of the chaos they seemed content. Like children, Jon thought. He was sane though, and he knew how much had been taken from them already. All their memories. Soon they will forget how to eat. How to breath.</p><p> </p><p>Sansa didn’t recognize him, he didn’t expect her to, but she showed no fear. There was a long stretch of fabric in her lap, and a sincere smile on her face.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you looking for my Lord Father, Ser? This isn’t the way to the Great Hall.”</p><p>“I’m not a knight, Your Grace. I have come because I got your raven, saying you needed me.”</p><p> </p><p>Sansa scanned his face with curiosity and then her gaze fell upon his black jerkin and black coat.</p><p> </p><p>“A brother of the Nights Watch is always welcomed to Winterfell, my lord.”</p><p> </p><p>She gestured to the other chair, her head inclined gracefully. The Gods in their mercy hadn’t stripped Sansa yet of the courtesies of her childhood, of the countless books she read with her septa. She recognized a black knight of the Watch without hesitation and as such she treated him. The gifts her mother had given her still clung to her fingers too. And so she sew.</p><p> </p><p>The flicker of hope in Jon’s heart died the next morning when she welcomed him again as a knight, when she spoke of her father and her mother and all of them as if they were all still alive. At first he attempted to explain to her about the horrible plague that had gripped Winterfell and everyone that came in contact with them. Of how Wintertown was deserted and none of the other castles in the North will come to their aid, afraid of losing their memories as well. Of how she had sent ravens herself to the Citadel, to Bran, to anyone who could have a cure.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, desperate, she had sent him a raven to tell him they had bared the doors of the castle hoping to contain the spread of the disease. She only asked him as Lord Commander of the Watch to carry on his Queen’s last will and burn their bodies when their time came, fearful even buried they could pass it to others. But that have been Queen Sansa. This Sansa dismissed his words as a tale, and didn’t seemed frightened by them.</p><p> </p><p>The people still living in the castle made no attempt to speak to Jon and no one answered his questions, their words stolen by this plague, but Sansa never lacked conversation. Jon noticed she rarely left her chambers. Maybe that had shielded her from the worst of it, but it will come. It will. Jon could do nothing for her, nothing at all, but keep her comfortable, and he decided against logic to tell her nothing else of the outside world even if it made him feel like a mummer in a farce.</p><p> </p><p>Soon the calendar stopped meaning much to him, one blurry day after another. Two days stood out from the rest, though. Ghost showed up a few days after he arrived and not one second early. He had no more of the food he had brought with him from the Wall and he feared eating the castle food. No one knew for sure how the disease had started but he wasn’t taking chances. Ghost could share some of his hunting with him.</p><p> </p><p>The very same night Ghost arrived, Jon went to her chambers to talk her into sleeping some.</p><p> </p><p>“Your Grace, you must rest.”</p><p>“I’m not tired, Ser. Have you seen Septa Mordane?, I haven’t seen her all day.”</p><p>“Is something of the matter? Can I be of assistance, Your Grace?”</p><p>“Ser, you are very kind, but it is...a matter for ladies. You wouldn’t be interested.”</p><p>“Try me.”</p><p> </p><p>Sansa eyes are inquiring. That’s good, Jon thinks, please, Gods, please, she’s still there, she’s still Sansa.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just my tapestry, Ser, I embroidered the sigil of my house.” The familiar word escapes her mind, but she bits her lower lip as if shutting down the panic.“It’s...it’s...here”</p><p> </p><p>Jon looks at the sewing incredulous. Suddenly a loud thump against the door makes them both jump. Ghost paddles into the room and Sansa gasps delighted.</p><p> </p><p>“What a pretty dog!, and it’s so big! Tell me, Ser, what is his name?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not a dog, Your Grace, a dire wolf. His name is Ghost.”</p><p> </p><p>She kneels, petting Ghost and whispering sweet words to him. The sight warms Jon’s heart and for a moment he dares to think she might have defeated the disease. Maybe she will remember him now. Sansa frowns and stands up slowly. She takes her sewing from Jon’s hands and stares at it long. An embroidered dire wolf looks at her from the fabric, white and red like a weirwood.</p><p> </p><p>__________________________________________________________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Jon feels confident now to let her wander the castle. Ghost has become her shadow and she chatters happily with him as she brushes his fur and claps excitedly when he brings her his catch. It’s a relief because he has taken onto himself all the tasks the ghostly maids no longer do. Between the cleaning and laundry, Jon barely has time to cook something simple with whatever Ghost has found and fetch water from the river. He doesn’t dare touch the water from the castle wells.</p><p> </p><p>Any other blurry grey day, he’s carrying water when he sees a raven flying above the courtyard. The maester was nowhere to be found when he arrived in Winterfell and he has paid no attention to the rookery, but he sees the bird has landed. Ghost is rolling around in the snow and Sansa laughs with a frank and giddy laugh, like a little girl’s. Jon dashes to the rookery and when he grabs the raven’s leg he sees the stag seal on the scroll.</p><p> </p><p>Arya.</p><p> </p><p>His sister has never being what people will call a beauty, but there’s something about her face now. It looks more rounded, as if she had gained some weight.It gives her a softer look, a sweeter look. Her grey tunic is loose and her breeches and boots look new.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no way in Seven Hells I will let you in the castle.”</p><p> </p><p>Arya gives him a furious look. “I want to see her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sansa is well taken care of.”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s my sister, let me in.”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Arya’s eyes are watery. Jon knows Arya is not one to cry easily. She whispers.</p><p> </p><p>“Is she worst?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. She’s not in pain if that’s what you mean. But she doesn’t remember much. She has forgotten everything that happened to father. And everyone.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I remember everything little sister. To my sorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t eaten anything from the castle kitchens, and I don’t drink from the wells.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are the wells contaminated?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon shrugs, “better to be safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Arya nods and turns to Gendry, standing a few feet behind her. “We brought food, ale, candles and soap and all the herb potions our maester did” she says, and Gendry hands her a leather bag, “and, even...some remedies I found across the sea, roots I don’t even know the name of. Perhaps if you give them to her...”</p><p> </p><p>Jon watches Arya’s face as she hands him jars and little sacs, and something that looks like snake eggs. He knows deep down not of that will help Sansa but he doesn’t want to upset Arya even more. “Of course, it won’t hurt to try. Now, leave everything and go. I don’t want you to catch it.”</p><p> </p><p>Arya sighs, “you sound exactly like Gendry, he’s always worrying too much about me, and now it’s even worst.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now?”</p><p> </p><p>Arya’s answer is to open her coat a bit, revealing a tiny bump under her tunic. Jon’s heart is full of joy and fear at the same time. A baby. Arya is having a baby. “Congratulations.” Gendry hugs him, beaming, and begins chatting animatedly about plans, and names, and Gods be good, even colors for the child’s room. He doesn’t stop chatting until they have unloaded the goods and said their goodbyes. Jon alone carries every barrel, every box, one by one through the Godswood door and slowly into the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>When he’s done, sweaty and exhausted, he goes back to Sansa. She’s nowhere in the castle. He can’t find her sewing by the fire, the Godswood, or the glass gardens. He looks even in the latrines, and finally, panicky, with an image in his head of her red hair floating lifeless, inside the wells. He’s beginning to fear she somehow opened the castle gates and left when he finds her footprints and Ghost’s heading down the crypts.</p><p> </p><p>He can breath again when he sees her, sitting on a slab of stone, holding Ghost, her face buried in its white fur. “Sansa?”. Only then he hears it. She’s sobbing, and when she lifts her face from the wolf’s neck is red, puffy and covered in tears. “Sansa, what’s the matter?, what happened! Are you hurt?”. Sansa picks her tapestry from the floor, and without words hands it to him. Jon sees the pretty little stitches form a man’s shape, his body slump on some steps and his head on the floor in a pool of blood. Father.</p><p> </p><p>Jon holds her tight until she stops sobbing, her hair tickling his chin. When she finally talks her voice is timid, not a Queen’s but a little girl’s. “Are they all dead? Father? Robb?” Jon nods and new tears come to her eyes. “But how? I don’t understand! Was it...? Cersei?” Jon has never felt so helpless. Not even trapped under his own men, not even facing an angry dragon. “I’m sorry, Sansa.” His words can’t do nothing, his comfort is useless to her, and somehow burying them the second time around is worse than the first.</p><p> </p><p>“My mother too?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon kisses her forehead, the heat of her skin seeping into his twisting heart, and he rocks her softly. When she’s calmer she caresses the cold stone as if she could touch them, her big blue eyes looking around. She notices the dire wolf carved in the stone and freezes. Jon can sense what is coming but he cannot do anything to stop it. Her voice is low but firm, “Is it..Shaggy dog?” Jon nods again, and he curses his own intact memories, he curses the Lannisters, the Boltons, and even this sudden sanity. She could have been forever happy, lost in her false world.</p><p> </p><p>“Arya?”.</p><p> </p><p>Jon grabs her face with both hands. “Arya is alive. And Brandon too.” Sansa stares at him and for a moment he’s afraid her lucidity is over. Then she smiles. Her eyes shine and she smiles, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.</p><p> </p><p>Epilogue</p><p> </p><p>Days are now spent in the trappings of everyday life, meals are made, clothes are mended, baths are taken. At times Jon finds the castle noises deafening and the maids chatter annoying, but then he reminds himself to stop scowling and to enjoy this strange new life of his where silence is rarely an option. His life full of schedules and duties, but also of a woman’s love, of a son and a daughter of his own blood pulling his beard and hair as they roll on the floor laughing.</p><p> </p><p>No one can explain what happened, how the disease came so sudden and left the same, although the maesters of the Citadel certainly tried. Jon has his own explanation that he won’t share with anyone, but every time he sits in the Great Hall in a tall chair next to his wife the Queen, he contemplates the long tapestry hanging from the opposite wall. His eyes wander from dire wolves carefully stitched on the fabric to swords, from beheadings to coronations, from flying dragons with intricate embroidered scales to weddings. Their painful memories are the price they pay for not forgetting, and he is certain that it was this, the magic that poured from Sansa’s own fingers that healed them all.</p>
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